


River Eyes

by The_Carnivorous_Muffin



Series: Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus [31]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, First War with Voldemort, Fist Fights, Gen, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 05:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Carnivorous_Muffin/pseuds/The_Carnivorous_Muffin
Summary: Before his revolution begins Tom Riddle reaches out to Fenrir Greyback in order to gain the support of the rogue British werewolves.





	River Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vinelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinelle/gifts).



Tom Marvolo Riddle was a brilliant, driven, but very odd man who would go to lengths no one would ever conceive for a goal he only half believed in.

 

This was one of those dark secrets though, not unspoken but unknown, inconceivable, if only because it relied on knowing Tom Marvolo Riddle almost in his entirety; which, of course, almost no one did.

 

June, 1967.

 

In order to launch his revolution and become king of wizarding Great Britain, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was getting punched in the face by a werewolf in a fistfight that he was almost guaranteed to lose.

 

* * *

 

“Get back on it you pansy bastard! Is that all you bloody wizards got in you?”

 

Staggering backwards the first thing he noticed was the high-pitched ringing, not so much in his ears, as somewhere in his head. An overpowering noise that left you dazed, blinking, and your thoughts scattered like glass that has only recently been shattered apart.

 

The next thing he noticed was that there was blood dripping down his nose and into his mouth and that Fenrir Greyback was coming in for a second blow towards his stomach.

 

With alarm and a great amount of will he moved out of the way and brought his arms up and together in the way that was reminiscent of muggle boxers and stepped back and out of the way before the werewolf could get a hit in.

 

Greyback laughed, his teeth yellow, and the sound of it like the cackling of a beast, “Ah, that’s the spirit laddie.”

 

Later, when he wasn’t bleeding and continuing to bleed, he would think that it was the height of irony that anyone would call him a lad anymore. He hadn’t been a lad since his Hogwarts days, he hadn’t been a lad even when he was a child.

 

(When was the last time he had been in a fight like this, it must have been before Hogwarts, fighting with your hands was a muggle technique. It would have been Dennis, then, before the stupid bastard had been put in his place…

 

He hadn’t won that fight, not then, he had always been too small then to win those fights. No, he always won later, when they had long since thought the fight was done. By the end of it he would leave them worse than bleeding.)

 

But in the moment he did not respond, instead kept his eyes focused, and listened to his heartbeat like a fast paced drum pounding inside of his head. The world dripped from him, there was only the goal, only the scarred face of the undisputed leader of the werewolves in all of the British Isles.

 

There was no thought of why he must do this, of how he had come to this, of how in spite of being halfway immortal he still could feel the ache and grind of mortality. There was only the sweat dripping in his eyes, the slow and steady breathing, and the opening he was searching for that would bring down a stronger and larger man with lycanthropy on his side.

 

And as hairy calloused knuckles met with his own arms shakily blocking the blow from his face he saw the weak stance he needed, shoved his own body forward (taking in the scent of blood, sweat, wolf, and death that lingered on Greyback as he tackled the man to the floor) and slammed his fist up against Greyback’s jaw.

 

For a moment they just remained there, Greyback stunned and twitching, Tom Marvolo Riddle straddling him and shaking but his eyes bright and burning as blood dripped from his nose and knuckles.

 

And then the werewolf was laughing, “You know, I think you might have some wolf’s blood in you after all. Wizards don’t have eyes half so bright and dangerous as yours.”

 

(In his head he saw not his own eyes reflected back but those of a girl, an adolescent, a terrible vibrant green that seemed to hold the very light of death inside them.)

 

“Alright then, wizard filth, let’s hear of your war against the bloody ministry and why me and mine should pay attention and side with you and yours.”

 

* * *

 

After the fight he had torn what remained of his stained and abandoned shirt and cut it into strips, wrapping it around his knuckles ignoring the growing bruises on his face and body. And all the while, as he silently worked, he was fully aware of the weight of Fenrir Greyback’s yellow gaze and of his wand that had remained untouched throughout the night in a holster against his leg.

 

Against his back the fire crackled, smoke billowing upwards, but other than that and the pelts of deer and elk that they were sitting upon there was little sign of humanity. Only what Tom himself had brought with him and what little remained in Fenrir Greyback.

 

The man was wearing next to nothing, his feet bare of shoes and his toenails long overgrown, thrown over his back and chest and barely covering his genitals was the pelt of some slain beast, on his neck the teeth of elk rattled on a leather string. There was no sense of shame in him though, of blustering and bluffing, he was leaning relaxed and staring straight into Tom’s eyes and it was clear that this was his element in a way that a wizard would not even be at home inside Hogwarts itself.

 

There was no sign of the rest of his tribe of stolen children and vagrant wolves, but then Tom had come during the time of the waxing moon, and he had no doubt that they had smelled him long before he had taken a step into their territory.

 

And that something in his scent, in the sound of his footsteps against the leaves, and his muggle clothing had been enough to warrant Fenrir’s unguarded interest. Enough for the man to challenge him to a fist fight, to see if he was really serious, and not kill him in the process. And by the look in those eyes, by the way he had not looked away for minutes, he was still interested.

 

“You said you plan to take the Ministry of Magic.” Fenrir said, and Tom wondered what the man thought of his Scottish brogue, a clear sign that he had once been a human being with a very clear point of origin.

 

The old werewolf tribes, the ones that had existed when there were still druids on the islands, those who were born with the wolf in their blood and kept away from humanity, had long since been exterminated by vengeful wizards and those that remained had gone so deep into hiding that none had seen them since.

 

“Yes, I do.” Was all Tom said in response.

 

“Then I’ll say that I would be very interested in a world where the Ministry of Magic has been toppled and wizard trash have a taste of fear in their bellies. However, those are very pretty words that are very easy to say, and I still haven’t heard why I should be interested in them.” Even a half smile, a crooked jagged thing, still displayed those yellowing teeth that stank of raw flesh.

 

It was always when he spoke softly, with assurance, with the unshakeable faith within his own abilities that people stopped to truly listen. When you went beyond the confidence of mortal men, beyond arrogance and hubris, when your will was so strong that it bent the universe to it that was when they paid attention.

 

“Because mine are not simply pretty words. I will become emperor of this nation and I will reshape it in my own image and the elite of the ministry will not only stand aside to watch me but they will also pave my path.” Because the charisma of Voldemort would be such that no member of the aristocracy could bear to look away, they would take in his timeless features and his noble lineage to Salazar Slytherin and they would drink it down without realizing it for the poison that it was.

 

They would destroy themselves for him and they would not even realize it.

 

“As for you and yours when all this is said and finished I will grant you land and the ability to do as you wish and live under your own law.” Which was more than Fenrir could grant himself, if he were to wage war against the wizards and he were to miraculously win, and while Fenrir played the role of a beast in human form he was by no means stupid.

 

“You talk like you’re a king already.” Fenrir said and then added with that cruel smile, “I like that, it’s like us, rather than like them. Alpha isn’t something you vote or you just become, it’s in your blood, in your bones and breath. I think it’s in your eyes, wizard. They’re like ice on the lakes in winter, the kind that tempts you to run across it only for it to buckle and drown you. There’s something old and wild inside your soul.”

 

Tom agreed, but did not say it needlessly, knowing that Fenrir could read it well enough in his eyes alone.

 

“But I know that humans like reasons, excuses, for their actions and that these say a lot about them. So why do you wish to become king of the wizards, River Eyes?”

 

It had been an old half-extinguished dream, one an angst ridden child had dreamed up when glory seemed so terribly fleeting and muggle London was burning in the war, that had been forgotten and put aside as the years had passed by and only recently had been rekindled.

 

After returning from abroad he had remembered the frustration, the corruption, and the sheer loathing and contempt he held for mudbloods and purebloods alike that reminded him of his visions of glory all those years ago.

 

And he remembered her, the last time he’d seen her, seeming out of place and time yet more invincible and unquestionable for it. And he had thought, staring at her green eyes which conveyed no emotions or thought but instead wild and dangerous magic, that this was what the face of an immortal empress must look like.

 

Now that image burned in his mind like a brand every time he closed his eyes and with it he knew it was not beyond him to conquer these small dark islands.

 

“To be worthy of everything I have the potential to be.” He said, and it was enough, because Fenrir was still grinning and his eyes still glowing in the dark.

 

“Alright, wizard king, you wage your war and you will find a pack of wolves wearing the faces of men behind you.”

**Author's Note:**

> A reader asked for a fic with Tom Riddle getting punched in the face so we have homoerotic werewolf wrestling here for you.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments, kudos, and bookmarks are greatly appreciated.


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